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 Why do sissies love to get dressed up and preen? The answer is obvious. To me at least. From birds to fish to mammals, the male of most species has flair. More colour, more flash, more decoration with which to catch the eyes of breeding females, and to intimidate marauding males with. But not humans. No. Our species has lost its feathers, so to speak, but not the urge to preen. So we dress up, males and females alike, and some males, more so than others. And some males, well, they dress up in secret, putting on their pretties, dressing up in outfits that would put most women to shame — if only women saw them. But not so long ago, men wore silks and satins, tight breeches, kilts and pumps. They powdered their faces, wore eye-catching wigs, and yes, even carried fans. Ah my sweet sissies, don’t you see, your urge to dress up is a biological urge, something primal, something from deep inside your racial memory? Perhaps you were born too late, who knows? But there is no need to be ashamed. No need to hide. There are women out there who think boys in dresses are sexy. I love my men in black–dresses that is. So dress up in your pretties and call me… prance for me and preen for me, your loving Mistress Pamela. We will have lots of naughty fun and you will have all the freedom you need to be whoever you want to be with me.
 So I have this regular phone sex client who loves the whole Clothed Female / Nake Male (CFNM) thing, especially combined with Cock and Ball Torture (CBT). We had an interesting session this weekend involving me finding him masturbating with a pair of my panties and punishing him. The punishment was stripping him naked and making him serve me and a group of my friends who did a wide variety of humiliating things to him, ranging from tying up his cock and balls and putting hot pepper sauce on them, spanking him over a grandmotherly knee, and violating him with the handle of a hair brush. One of my women friends has the most amazing breasts, big milk-white DD with the palest pink nipples. I knew he had a thing for large breasts so I made him pant like a puppy and lap at her nipples. I even made him hump her leg. It was hysterically funny from our perspective, and erotically humiliating for him.
I was telling my sister about his antics and as I did, it gave me such wonderful ideas for next time. I’m thinking about emphasizing the whole puppy thing… stripping him down and and making him press his face into everyone’s lap to get a good whiff of them, then having my friends take their panties off and toss them around the room. Then his task will be to run on his hands and knees to get a pair of panties (while I spank him with a paddle) , get a good sniff of them, and then match the panties up with the appropriate lady. Doesn’t that sound like fun! His punishments and rewards could range from making him do things that emphasize the humiliating size of his small penis, to letting him fuck a nice big pair of titties.
If the thought of being naked and at the mercy of a group of high society women turns you on, give me a call for a session, either with me or with a second mistress to double the fun 
 You want someone to take control of you. Not just control of your cock, not just your actions or your mind, but all of you. Your entire being. You want a woman–not just any woman mind you–but a dominant woman, a woman who knows you and knows herself and knows exactly what she wants from you–and what you want from her. You want a woman who will invest time and energy in you, in training you, teaching you, coaching you, coaxing you, molding you. You want to be putty in the hands of a dominant woman; you want to be the Galatea to a Domme’s Pygmalion.
Oh yes, I get what you want. I get you.
And if it is any comfort, you’re not alone.
Every day I run into a handful of people whose longing is so powerful it is unmistakable to me. Every day, both online and in person. A conservative estimate of 5 people every day means 150 people a month. 150 people who, like you, long for the undivided attention of a woman like me. I get IMs and emails. I get phone calls. I get people following me in stores and on the street, striking up conversations about nonsensical things just so they can talk to me, have a few minutes of my attention.
And I love it, don’t get me wrong. I love the attention, the longing and energy all of you bend my way. But as I recently had to remind a couple of people who grew upset because my attention in IM chats was not focused entirely upon them… there are hundreds of you, and just one of me. There is only so much of me to go around It is a matter of supply and demand, and in the case of my undivided attention, opportunity cost.
I wish I could spend hours in chat with each one of you, each of us indulging our kinks without interruption, but I cannot. I am a dominant by nature and a FemDom by profession and for my business plan to work I must choose to put my time and energy toward productive and profitable activities. And while chatting is a great way to determine if we will be compatible, or to touch base, or to set up appointments or do post-session after-care, unless we have a paid phone or SexyText session, I cannot promise to give you my undivided attention. What I can promise is that if you pay for a phone, cam, or text session, you will get my undivided attention. It will be just you and me in the playground where our minds meet, and in that place, anything is possible.
So next time you IM me (and I love chatting with you, so please do send IMs!) just remember to be patient. You’re not alone. You’ve got competition for my time, and when I get off the phone, or when it is your turn in the daisy chain of blinking IM windows, I will respond to you.
And if you get tired of waiting for me, there is always the option of a paid session: either visit www.SexyTexting.com for an IM/Cam session, or pick up the phone and call 800-601-6975 That is the best way to get and hold my undivided attention–and I am sure you will find the opportunity worth the cost.
 I posted new audios to the Sissy School Forum at www.getgirlie.com and the Cock Control Forum at www.teasemania.com, so go check them out.
The most recent one I call Closet Cocksucker:
I know your fantasies. I know your dreams.
I’m so deep into your head that I can see what goes on in the playground of your mind, the smutty, dank, dungeon of your mind.
I know you fantasize about being bound and forced,
forced to do all those dirty, disgusting faggotty things
you secretly long to do.
I know you, boy.
I know that after you’ve watched your she-male sissy porn and jerked off to it, you can’t keep your eyes off other men’s packages.
You can’t help but wonder what their cocks look like as you spot them walking down the street, dismounting their bikes, sitting at a nearby table, their legs spread wide.
I know you want to crawl under the table. I see it in your mind, see that fleeting fantasy bloom in your mind before you shut it down with a mental “I mustn’t, its wrong.”
But as wrong as it is, your mouth waters when you imagine yourself tied up in some seedy dungeon with a big hairy man standing over you, his muscular thighs furred and his cock, still flaccid, twitching just inches from your nose.
And that is where I come in, me, the FemDom, the angelic demon in your head, saying:
Suck it!
Open your mouth, sissyboy, and take that cock into your mouth or I’ll make you hurt in ways you’ve never imagined you could hurt.
Open your mouth and tongue the head of that cock.
You know you want to.
.jpg) Listen here.
I am a petite brunette with a penchant for little black dresses and big black strap-ons… and, well… guess what I’ve got hiding under that little black dress… Yes! Exactly! Doesn’t it make your cock stand, thinking about me, oh so elegantly dressed, with a strap-on underneath? Can you imagine me rubbing up against you at work, or on a dance floor, or in an elevator, teasing you with it? I know it excites you. I know you want to see it. I know you want me to lift up my dress and show it to you. Give it to you. On your knees or bent over, it doesn’t matter does it? You want me to give it to you, don’t you boy? And you’ll take it however you can get it… however I want to give it to you….
This is a fantasy for a lot of men, having a woman surprise them with a strap-on. It is rather a lot of fun to enact with all those men out there who so shyly, reluctantly mention their deep, dark fascination with cock. When I tease them with my strap-on, there is something about the expressions on their faces, something about the guardedness that arises, matching the rising of their cocks, that really turns me on. The tables turned, no longer expected to “be the man” some men readily surrender to the idea of a woman with a cock using them like a woman. Forcing them to their knees, forcing them to open their mouths, my fingers laced in their hair and forcing them to suck my strap-on, their own cocks hard and aching, dripping pre-cum, and moaning like bitches in heat.
Just think–that could be you… if you call me.
 He said he wanted me. He said he’d do anything for a chance at me. When I asked him to be more specific about what he wanted, he blushed a bit, then said he wanted to be naked in bed with me.
“And you said you’d do anything?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said in a rushed explosion of air from his lungs. “Anything.”
I smiled at him. A soft smile that hinted at intimacy to come. If he’d been looking into my eyes he would have seen the pity there. And he would have known that he was in trouble. Would have run the other way, even. Silly man, wine had made him brave enough to forget his reservations. And his gloves. When you play with fire, you really ought to wear gloves.
So I took him to my room. My cousin’s home, rather ostentatiously called a “chateau” for the benefit of the winery, had many rooms, and mine was at the end of a rather long hallway, as secluded from the vanilla guests as he could comfortably put me without incurring insult or temptation. There is a history between my cousin and me…
I let the beaming man into my room. He looked like a child, radiant with joy, and eager, oh so eager, to please. Part of me pitied him, but part of me looked pitilessly upon him. He had some lessons to learn, this man-boy. Three, in fact. One, be careful what you wish for, it might come true. Two, beware offering anything for something. And three, what drew him so strongly to me was my dominance–so it was time to learn about submission.
I stood before him, hands on hips and told him that his wish “to be naked in bed with me” was granted. I made him strip naked. Utterly naked, save for the ribbons I placed around his little cock and balls and tied into pretty bows. And I was in bed with him alright, crop in hand. After a few cuts of my crop he begged for me to let him go, and yet he was unbound. He was free to leave, I told him. He could pick up his clothes and step outside to dress whenever he wished. But he stayed, as I knew he would. His little cock was hard, all tied up in its frilly bondage, and he ridiculously held out hope that he’d get to be with me. Be inside me. Ewww.! Like I’d grant a pathetic small-dicked loser like him access to my body in that way! My body is a temple and he was fit only to worship at it. And so that is what I taught him. How to worship my body, how to be my throne, how to serve me. He said he’d do anything to be naked in bed with me, and, well, he nearly did everything.
There are some things I didn’t do. Like let him cum. He was intoxicated, afterall.
Summer’s end. Time for the grape, both sipping and harvesting. I’ve got this huge extended family here in California–we were here prior to the Gold Rush –and along with orange and avocado groves, there are miles of vines. Everyone gathers for the press and for futures tasting, and during one of the gatherings some friends of my cousins caught me in an odd moment. I’d just gotten off the phone with my lover, who was on his way out of the country and was pouty (though he denied it) over the fact that I was not accompanying him this time.
Jim and Bev were on the deck sipping chardonnay when I stepped outside. I was tucking my phone away between my breasts when he looked directly at me and said “That gives whole new meaning to ‘you’re talking to my breasts’,” and then laughed at his own joke. I smiled politely at him, remembering that he and his wife owned a local B&B that my cousins had cross-promotion arrangements with. Be nice, I told myself.
Bev held out her hand. “You’re Pamela aren’t you? I’m–”
“Bev,” I interrupted her. She seemed pleased that I remembered her name.
“You really are lovely,” she said. “You look just like your grandmother… wasn’t she French?” Which lead to a discussion of where I get my looks–Yes, my paternal grandmother was French and Arab–she had an Algerian grandmother herself, and the coloring that distinguished me from all my blond cousins did indeed come from her side of the family.
I did my best to re-direct the conversation toward them, asking after their children. Most people love talking about themselves, but for some reason, Jim and Bev were fascinated with me and would not be deterred.
“So what is it that you do?” Jim asked me. Like most people, especially men, Jim operated under the the assumption that you are what you do.
I laughed behind the rim of my wine glass. “Oh wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Of course,” said Bev, giving me her full attention.
“Oh, I don’t do much of anything,” I said airily, prevaricating. For some reason the small amount of wine I’d taken in interfered with my ability to pull whatever seemed suitable out of my bag of talents and skills. Since I’d moved back home to California I usually said I was a perpetual student, or taking a sabbatical, or confessed with mock shame to living off oil lease income. All true, in their own way, but not the whole truth. While I am known as the sexually deviant black sheep of the family, I have been careful to be discreet so as not to be a source of discomfort for the more prominent members of the family.
“Now that I find difficult to believe,” boomed Jim. “You’ve got too much energy to be the laze-about type.”
Bev touched my arm. “There’s no need to be shy with us.”
The ridiculousness of anyone considering me shy made me laugh again. I imagined them both kneeling naked at my feet, presenting the implements they’d chosen to be punished with. I banished the image from my mind as inappropriate and focused my attention on Jim and Bev, reminding myself that they were business associates of my cousin.
“Are you the one who is a scientist?” Jim asked.
Without thinking, I answered, “I was,” and then kicked myself. I could have bored them with talk of genome mapping and PCR and they wouldn’t have been any the wiser.
“And now?” Bev asked. She leaned into me, brushing her hip against mine. I knew that move and what it signified.
I gave her a big grin. “You might want to get that idea out of your head,” I said to her.
“What idea?” she asked, her eyebrows raised high over wide eyes.
“The one where you and your husband take me home and have your way with me,” I laughed. “I’d top you both in a heartbeat.”
When the look on their faces registered, I rewound what I’d said in my mind and then gave myself another kick. The heated discussion with my lover had me a bit more flustered than I’d realized, if I was slipping up so badly.
The change in their energy was like the difference between a light bulb and a solar flare.
“You’re in the lifestyle?” Jim asked, with incredulous hope.
Ah well, no sense trying to close the barn door now. I chose the simplest, most straightforward word I knew.
“FemDom.”
It hung there between us.
“Come home with us….” Bev suggested softly, her longing perfuming the night air. I could smell her arousal.
I thought about my lover, who was boarding his international flight right about then. I hadn’t seen him in a week and my sexual frustration was acute. It would be another 10 days before I saw him, and it was unthinkable what might happen when we did end up in bed if I didn’t get some of my frustration worked out beforehand.
I made up my mind. “Ok. Lets go.” I said, setting my glass down on the railing.
I glanced from one to the other, looking forward to some serious queening. One of them was going to learn to breathe pussy juice toight, and I was leaning rather heavily toward Bev. No one sucks cock like a man, and no one eats pussy like a woman.
“Well?” I asked them, my eyebrows arched imperiously.
“I’ll get the car,” was Jim’s answer.
Bev and I linked our arms and followed behind at a leisurely pace.
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By dawn we fell asleep in a heap. They’d both been paddled and thoroughly sucked and fucked. And me, well, I rode face for much of the night just like I’d wanted, when I wasn’t using my strap-on… What in the Dickens — talk about Grape Expectations
Hello boys and gurls! I’m away from home right now, visiting friends and family in the wine country of Central California. It is soon going to be time for the harvest and the Stomp festivities, and it is a fun, all-hands-on-deck time of the year. I won’t be home until mid-October, which means my access to emails and IM are going to be spotty. But don’t you worry — I haven’t forgotten about you, and I’m doing my best to set aside hours during the week to give you all the attention you’re hungry for, which right now it looks like 11am to 5pm EST Monday through Friday, when all the kids are away at school and their parents are at work Keep an eye on my Twitter tweets for when I’m available!
So to summarize:
- I’m stomping grapes as well as balls for the next few weeks.
- I’ll make sure to Tweet when I’m available, usually between 11am and 5pm Eastern.
- I may not be able to respond to IMs and Emails right away.
I look forward to talking to you soon!
I brought some kimonos back from Japan. There is one of gold silk with a peacock brocade and a sapphire blue obi. Another that is sky-blue silk with a brocade of a geisha and her maiko doing cherry blossom viewing from a boat. The obi for it is a pale pink that picks out the color of the cherry blossoms on the kimono. I also found one in a pale jade color with another geisha scene, this one silk-screened instead of brocaded. And I picked up a handful of yukatas as well, the lighter-weight kimono-type robes, and some of those odd split-toe socks that the Japanese wear with their sandals.
I’ve enjoyed dressing boys and gurls up as maiko (apprentice geisha). Some I have had to be very persuasive with, because they were rather reluctant to let me powder their skin white and put ornaments in their hair and dress them up and take them out. But others, well, there are some sissies out there who just love being dressed up and fussed over and taken for walks at the Japanese gardens. All those photo opportunities! I tell you, I swear some sissies cum in their panties just sitting there while people ask to take their photos.
Some of my clients find the process both very sensuous and pampering — from the long soak in the tubs, to the massages and the being slowly made up and dressed, coached on mannerisms, and then put on display like ikebana, a fragile flower arrangement. But there were some naughty subs that I had to tie up just like Denise Beryl in the Miss High Heels story and then cane them, or spank their hands and feet, or even gag them.
I wonder which of you will be next in line to be my little geisha gurl?
This is Part Seventeen of The Secret Life of John and Sara, started here.
The Secret Life of John and Sara is based on a true story. I’ve fictionalized it to protect the identities of my friends John and Sara, whose ‘secret life’ is secret for a very good reason. John is a Silicon Valley CEO, a sissy and a cuckold, and Sara is a 40-something nymphomaniac Nurse Administrator. Here is their story:
Of course, John found the sight of his wife sucking my strap-on very arousing — even if he had just cum. And seeing as it had been six months since he’d last fucked his wife, I wasn’t surprised to see him moving in on her bare ass, his dick sticking out from his pretty panties. When he grabbed hold of her ass, Sara reared up off my strap-on an back-handed him. John showed admirable restraint in not hitting her back, seeing as he could have done a fair amount of damage. But it didn’t stop me from slapping her.
I grabbed her by the hair on the top of her head and asked her if there was a problem. She replied that she didn’t want her sissy faggot husband near her. I gave her a long look. She was a feisty one, that Sara, and I was relishing the challenge she presented, particularly the challenge of renewing her husband as a sexual object in her eyes.
I glanced at John.
“Pick her up and follow me, would you?”
John scooped Sara up in a fireman’s carry and followed me down the hall to the bedroom I’d picked out. She didn’t fight him, but she didn’t cooperate either. She resisted silently, stubbornly, with an expression of childish petulance on her face. I was looking forward to wiping that expression off her face.
Instead of setting her down on the floor, I had him stand her on the bed. I spread her legs and tied her ankles to the posts at the foot, and then bound her wrists to the joint between the posts and the canopy, so that her figure formed an X in the frame. I pulled a custom-made ginger ointment from one of my bags and dabbed a bit on each of her nipples and her clit.
And then I took the hand of her lingerie-clad husband and lead him to the bed…
To be continued…
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